


Do Not Go Gentle

by kianspo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 05, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5133349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime around the end of the eighteenth century, he starts using his name again.<br/>Post-finale future fic, reincarnation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Go Gentle

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не уходи смиренно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953453) by [evansforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evansforgotten/pseuds/evansforgotten)



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> Magical banner by [evansforgotten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/evansforgotten/pseuds/evansforgotten)  
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\--

Sometime around the end of the eighteenth century, he starts using his name again.

The Spanish Inquisition has a few more decades to run, but no one really cares anymore. Not with the total war, the American independence, and the French Revolution. An auto-da-fe is no longer in trend, replaced by the guillotine, as the Old Europe goes through convulsions of a midlife crisis and the New World stomps its feet in a tantrum for the first time and learns of its power, like any child.

Years later, he will pick a new edition of a history book and read all about the noble intent and glorious strive for freedom, fuelled by the ideals of _liberté, égalité, fraternité_ , and he’ll ask himself if he’s the only one who remembers the ugly truth, the smell of blood and rotting bodies on the streets of Paris, the stink of helplessness and indifference in the halls of Westminster, the screams of women who will someday be called Native Americans and are now referred to with monikers he wouldn’t care to repeat and treated as such.

He will throw the history book away in disgust, like he had so many times before. He will go out and stare up into the sky, at the ground beneath his feet, at the tree tops, and the wind, and he’ll yell in a language no one can understand anymore and ask when it’ll be enough, when it’s finally the time.

No one will answer.

He doesn’t really expect it, and that’s perhaps the hardest part.

“Wake up,” he’ll whisper, pleading and hating himself for it. “Wake up, please. Can’t you see that I need you?”

But it’s better this way, and he knows it, and the selfish moment of despair passes as it always does.

He picks up his cane – staffs went out of fashion centuries back – and his bag when he has one, and starts walking, heading further away yet.

He’s under orders not to change, but no one said anything about running.

\--

He first learns about Old Souls in China.

His apprenticeship at a tiny drugstore is nostalgic in more ways than one, but the ancient owner reminds him not of Gaius, but of Killgharrah. It must be something in the expression on his lined face, something that says ‘I’m lying through my teeth and you’re an imbecile,’ probably.

“Old souls belonged to the old gods. But the old gods are long dead, and the new ones have no claim over them.”

The pounder slips in his hold, tearing a grating sound from the china bowl where he’s grinding ginseng routs. He looks up to find the old man watching him closely, looking through the sixteen-year-old body and ever-downcast eyes.

“Who do they belong to then?”

His teacher shrugs. “No one. They will come back when they truly belong to themselves again.”

He bows his head and goes back to his work, ignoring the old man’s scrutiny and the shimmering, traitorous quiver of hope in his chest.

\--

The first time he goes back is on the turn of a century, thirty years after the citadel of Camelot falls. The former heart of Albion is a no man’s land, swallowed by the forests with unnatural speed, its cobblestones and flagpoles sunk into the earth, its name but an echo.

But higher up in the mountains to the windy north, the Great Dragon is dying.

“I lied to you, young warlock,” he says, his mental voice booming, but not an actual sound reverberating between the cavern’s walls. His golden eyes are only just open.

He sounds sad, sadder than ever in the thousands of years of his existence, but the warlock doesn’t care.

He presses his hand to the lifeless wing, the scales dry and dead under his touch, no heat emanating from the once-powerful body.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, and watches Killgharrah cry.

\--

Lancelot is the first.

It’s Paris (again), a shabby tavern, and a man who gives shelter to the wounded, not caring if they wear the Tricolour or the royal band. His name is Guillaume. He still (again?) looks too much like a soldier to pass for a doctor or an innkeeper.

They shake hands, and there’s a smile, but no recognition.

“Lancelot,” he says, and gets a confused frown and a shake of the head.

He spends the night drinking cheap sour wine and watching, refusing to give up. He needs to get up in the end, stumbles out of his chair, and nearly sprawls on the filthy floor, but he’s caught securely by a pair of arms he knows so well.

He presses into the touch and says, “Lancelot,” again.

It’s the combination, he discovers then. He watches as Lancelot’s face blurs for a moment, he blinks, staggering, as the knowledge of another lifetime and his one true self spills inside his head. He lifts his eyes blearily, and they widen in wonder.

“Merlin?”

Merlin nods, his heart pounding, his knees weak, despite him being for once in his true body that had stopped aging before he hit thirty, just as—

He shakes his head and smiles. “Welcome back.”

Lancelot crushes him against his chest and doesn’t let go for a long time.

\--

They leave the stiffling heat of the city and head toward the sea. They don’t sleep as long as they can help it, and then only short whiles. They talk. Or rather, Lancelot asks questions, and Merlin talks about things he hasn’t spoken of for over a thousand years.

He has no difficulty recalling every detail.

“You never went back,” Lancelot says, even though Merlin never told him that.

There’s no accusation in his tone, but Merlin still winces, even though he had a long time to deal with his guilt, to see the futility of it. Even if he had gone back, he would have merely prolonged the agony. He might have been the mind, even the power, but Arthur was the heart and soul of Camelot. It couldn’t live without him.

His conscience is clear but for the goodbyes he never said, and the guilt he carried before Gwen. He couldn’t face her. He couldn’t bear her forgiveness. He’d always known, he knew even then that Killgharrah lied, that he _had_ failed. He lost Arthur for all of them.

“Gwen did good,” he says, turning his face toward the wind. “Camelot had her golden age, after all.”

“It didn’t last,” Lancelot says, and it’s not a question.

“It couldn’t. But they had fourteen years.”

Lancelot closes his eyes for a moment. “How was she?” he asks after a beat. “If you, you know. If you heard?”

“She lifted the ban on magic.” Merlin smiles. “She invited the Druids back. She was a great queen.”

“Merlin—”

“She married Leon.”

Lancelot blinks. “Leon?”

“She didn’t want to.” Merlin sighs. “She didn’t want to marry anyone. After a few years, the council started pressuring her. A stable kingdom needs an heir. She resisted for as long as she could, but it was – hard, being up there. Gaius passed away. Percival... took Gwaine’s death hard. He swore to hunt down every last Saxon and left. He didn’t come back. Gwen didn’t have anyone. They pressured her to make a political alliance, but she refused. She and Leon were close as children. I suppose losing Arthur brought them closer still.”

Lancelot is watching him. “Leon... did always love Arthur in a way that – exceeded what a knight feels for his king.”

Merlin meets his eyes levelly. “I know. Most of you did. Believe me when I say he loved you right back.”

“Merlin—”

“Don’t.” Merlin shrugs his friend’s hand off his shoulder. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t want to talk about it.”

\--

“I lied to you, young warlock. Arthur didn’t die. Avalon healed his wounds, and he is sleeping. You could have woken him, had you followed, but you cannot anymore. The price for Arthur’s life was your ban from Avalon.

“Your destinies are entwined no longer. He still has his and always will.

“You are free.”

\--

“Here. You’re cold.”

Merlin takes the bottle from Lancelot and obediently takes a swig. He never did get used to the taste of cognac, but the warmth spills through his limbs even as he cringes. “Thanks.” He tilts his head. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Merlin...” Lancelot’s voice is hoarse. He has to clear his throat before he can continue. “How are you—”

“Alive?” Merlin shrugs. “I can’t die. Trust me, I’ve tried. Nor can you anymore, I don’t think.”

“Sane,” Lancelot breathes out softly.

“Oh.” Merlin looks at him and smiles wide, watching Lancelot flinch. “Knew I was forgetting something.”

\--

He storms the gates of Avalon with every ounce of magical power he has.

He causes three earthquakes, five tsunami waves, a few dozen hurricanes, and a group of asteroids to change their trajectories. 

\--

“The planet is still here,” Lancelot says, loyal even as his voice shakes badly.

Merlin closes his eyes. “It was a choice in the end, and you have no idea – how close I came to—”

“It’s all right, Merlin. I know we’ve been safe all along. You wouldn’t have.”

“How do you know?”

The smile is audible. “Because you haven’t changed, Merlin. And apparently the world depends on your continuous inability to be selfish.”

Just for that, Merlin shoves him off the bunk.

Lancelot laughs.

\--

“So how exactly does this work?” Gwaine asks as Merlin helps him to his feet.

It’s the middle of the Blitz, the ground of London is racing under their feet, and the sky erupts with fire.

“We need to get out of here,” Merlin mutters and pulls Gwaine by the hand. “Come on!”

“Do I get back to my old life? I mean this one?” Gwaine shouts over the sirens. “Bloody hell, Merlin, would you stop for just a second?”

But Merlin can’t stop, because a bomb is descending on them, and Gwaine can’t hear it yet, but Merlin’s magic jumps up, screaming in warning.

“Hold on!” Merlin orders, throws himself over Gwaine, and pulls at the fabric of space.

They’re thrown clear in the middle of the field, rolling over, still tangled, until the force of the spell lets up. Merlin groans loudly. Gwaine sits up, spitting out dirt. They can hear the attack in the distance, just barely.

“Well, fuck me,” Gwaine mutters, squinting at the horizon. “You really do have magic. I suspected sometimes.” He pokes Merlin in the stomach. “My name here was Joe. Can you imagine going through life being called Joe?”

Merlin smiles, and his control slips. He feels his eyes overflow with gold.

“Shit,” Gwaine hisses. “Shit, Merlin...”

“I’m sorry you died like that,” Merlin whispers. “I’m sorry I made it all for nothing.”

“Shut up,” Gwaine orders, his hand wrapping around Merlin’s throat. “Shut the fuck up, you – you—”

Merlin lets it happen, feels the air leave his lungs, and thinks maybe now, maybe, maybe... But then Gwaine is clutching him to his chest, face buried in Merlin’s neck, murmuring things Merlin never thought he’d hear.

The cowardly moment slips away, and Merlin feels ashamed, as Lancelot’s reproaching face comes before his mind.

\--

“What do I do?” Gwaine asks many hours later.

They’ve been walking along the country lane for a while now, they were offered a glass of milk (once), but not a ride.

“You do whatever you want to do,” Merlin says, kicking a stone with his tattered boot. “You belong to yourself now. I’m sure you’re dying to go back to defending your country—”

Gwaine chuckles. “Considering modern geography, I believe I’m Irish.”

Merlin snorts. “Figures.”

“What about the others?”

Merlin shrugs. “Lancelot is a doctor in France.”

“Still?”

“Again. He travelled with me for a while. We check in with each other every few years, but we’re not together all the time any more. He goes by Lance Du Lac now. They still give him shit about it, but they have no idea, do they?” Merlin shakes his head. “Percival is with him now, too. He’s someone big in the resistance.”

“And you?”

Merlin scowls up at the sky. “I can bring down a plane or two, or save a child from the fire, but I can’t stop the war. Or rather, I could, but—” He trails off, disgusted.

Gwaine looks at him shrewdly. “But if you stopped the war, you’d derail history, and there’s a chance that Arthur won’t come back.”

Merlin’s shoulders sag. “You have no idea how hard it is to wake up every day, and look around, and ask myself if I have the right to go on doing nothing when—”

“You’re not doing nothing.” Gwaine lays a hand on his arm. “If you didn’t work at the hospital, you wouldn’t have found me.”

“I work as a _doctor_ ,” Merlin spits out, angry. “I could—”

“What? Disarm everyone? Kill Hitler? Merlin, that’s—”

“Not nearly the limit of my power,” Merlin says, suddenly weary. “I can. But I can’t.” He rubs his forehead, stumbling like an old man. “You know, back in Camelot, all I wanted sometimes was to be released from my destiny. And then I was, and this world doesn’t belong to me anymore. But it’s still Arthur’s. And I must keep it for him. The way it’s supposed to be.”

“For everyone else. What about you?”

Merlin laughs. It comes out bitter. “I think they forgot about me,” he says, holding Gwaine’s eyes. “All who were no longer needed are gone. Dragons and Druids and witches. I think Mab is still around, but then again, I was pretty high at the time, so who the fuck knows.”

“Merlin—”

“ _I’m not needed anymore!_ ” Merlin yells. “I’m not needed, and I’m still here! Do you know how that feels? Year after year, century after fucking century? I’m still _right here_ , and he’s still – still _gone_!”

Gwaine lets him scream himself hoarse. Merlin is too tired to feel ashamed afterwards.

\--

The 60s are better. Merlin likes the Beatles, and weed is easier to come by than ever before. He’s not even a little surprised when he finds Gaius dealing.

“You couldn’t have found me when I was twenty-two?” Gaius grumbles as they light up at the back of his cottage.

Merlin squints at the spry, fifty-something man he’s never actually seen before – not this young anyway – and says, “You’ll do fine.”

He gets the eyebrow of doom for his trouble.

“What do you do now?” Gaius asks, studying him through heart-shaped purple glasses.

“I’m a researcher at Cambridge.” Merlin shrugs. “The ice caps are melting. Someone’s got to take care of that.”

Gaius gives him a look, and Merlin shakes his head. “Not like that.”

His old mentor sighs. “I thought you’d be a doctor.”

Merlin throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Gaius. So many times.” He shakes his head again. “I always cheat, I can’t help it. Sooner or later someone gets suspicious, and they start investigating my perfect record. And then I need to dash. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve been arrested.”

“My heart’s bleeding out for you,” Gaius intones dryly. “You’re saving lives. That should be good enough.”

When Merlin doesn’t reply, Gaius sighs.

“You know, I’ve always been afraid of that, even back in Camelot.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of you getting a big head.”

Merlin smiles. “Some days are easier. Others not so much. When they dropped the bomb, I thought maybe – surely, this has to be it. But it wasn’t, it never is. Gwaine says I should live a little.”

“So you’re doing research?”

“I like research.”

Gaius is pensive for a while.

“Merlin... Judging by everything you told me, there have been more of us emerging lately than before, correct?”

Merlin frowns. “I guess. There were sixty years between Lance and Percy. Then Gwaine. Then Isolde, Tristan, and Mithian. Oh, and Leon. And now you.”

Gaius fixes him with a look. “Do you think maybe—”

Merlin says nothing, but he looks away.

“It makes sense,” he admits at last. “He’s obviously going to need all of you for whatever it is that’s coming. At least I can help by waking you lot up. Your own touch doesn’t seem to do the trick on one another.”

Gaius considers him, a sceptical mien on his face. “Merlin, in all the time that I’ve known you, you never enjoyed wallowing in self-pity. Is this a new thing?”

Merlin glares at him, but deflates quickly. It’s easy now, with so many of them back. Easy to forget sometimes, if only for a short while, the endless months he spent kneeling before the impenetrable lake.

He was begging at first, calling for Arthur, weeping. He begged forgiveness for being absent for so long, for being unable to breathe the air of that place after Arthur – after he—

He tried calling for Freya next, but was only met with silence. She was gone from his reach, this time forever.

Later, he just sat there, staring at the water, losing track of days and nights, unfeeling to the rain and the cold, oblivious to hunger.

When he knew anything again, he was lying helpless at the bottom of a farmer’s cart, with a blanket thrown over him, and when they stopped someone gave him warm milk. They were headed up north, and they spoke a language he didn’t know. He thought it was his answer.

\--

Morgana can’t come back, slain by his own hand. Nor can Mordred, who died from Arthur’s. Excalibur had served its purpose well.

Nimueh is a different matter.

Merlin watches her for all of five minutes, waiting for the spark of recognition to blossom into old hatred inside his chest.

It doesn’t.

He watches her for a while yet, then turns away, and leaves without touching her or saying her name.

He feels no regret, either.

\--

Gwen is the last to emerge. Merlin stares blankly at the telly, taking in the aggressively purple pantsuit and the subtitles labelling her ‘Mary Smith, human rights activist.’ He feels his every thought stuttering to a halt, as he listens in mortified fascination to her ardent arguments in favour of gay marriage.

Gwaine, who’s been keeping close to Merlin for the last few years, has sagged to the floor, laughing hysterically, clutching at his sides, as helpless hiccupping sounds escape. 

Merlin kicks him. “Shut up,” he says, but his own lips are twitching.

“You don’t find this – ironic – in the least?” Gwaine manages, wiping tears from his eyes. His face is red, and he’s laughing still.

Merlin shakes his head, his grin twisted.

He doesn’t go to the studio, but waits for her in the garden of her parents’ house instead.

“Merlin.” Gwen blinks up at him, eyes full of endless wonder. “ _Merlin_.” She throws herself in his arms.

His heart pounding painfully in his chest, he holds onto her, the scent of her somehow so familiar, he’s choked up.

She pulls back to look at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then, her expression changes. 

“Oh my God, Merlin,” she says, hands clasping his arms suddenly tight. “You left.”

He owes her an explanation. Not the girl who once gave him flowers to cheer him up, but the queen he had sworn allegiance to. He mourned that girl, mourns his dear friend still, looking at the woman wearing her face, the woman who exchanged the pure and passionate devotion of a knight and a chance for personal happiness for a king’s hand, a crown, and the power of a queen.

“Merlin.” An order. And she hadn’t learned that from Arthur; that is all her.

He bows his head. “I’m sorry. I could not go back.”

“We needed you. His kingdom needed you.”

Merlin looks up. “His kingdom never came to be.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” he presses on. “And you know it. I fucked up, Gwen. We both did, Arthur and I, but I most of all.” 

She’s shaking her head. “You did your best, Merlin; you can’t blame yourself for—”

“Don’t you understand?” He shakes her. “I cared more about him than I did about his kingdom, more than I ever cared about magic – or anything. I didn’t care about Arthur the legend; I didn’t care about Arthur the King of Camelot. I only cared about Arthur the man.” His chest is hurting. He can’t get enough air. “I _fucked up_ , Gwen, and I’m sorry. Do you want that in writing?”

Gwen looks at him for the longest moment until her eyes go soft the way he’d forgotten they could.

“You were in love with him,” she whispers. 

Merlin pulls back, rubbing at his face. “Gwen...”

“I didn’t see it then, how could I? None of us were equipped to see that. But now—” She bites her lip, rolling back centuries for the memories of every odd look, every word that could never be appropriate, every selfless act going so far beyond loyalty of a subject... 

Merlin can almost feel it falling into place for her and shakes his head. “Don’t do this. It hardly matters.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He sighs. “Look, I don’t know if Arthur, if Camelot is really being given a second chance. These last twenty years, I have begun to hope. If that’s true, if this is what’s happening, I’m not going to screw it up this time.”

Gwen goes very still. “What do you mean?”

Merlin shakes his head, pulling away from her. “I’ve learned my lesson, Gwen.” He puts a hand on her shoulder in reassurance and conjures up a smile. “Come. I’ll tell you about the others.”

“Others?”

“Elyan,” Merlin says, thinking of the previously most recent addition. “Leon. Lancelot.”

He catches her before she can ruin the elaborate design of a flowerbed.

\--

When he reads about the asteroid, he buys a house at a lake. It’s not the same lake, but it doesn’t matter. That one only exists in Merlin’s memory anymore in any case.

Gwaine is there with him when Lancelot arrives, looking between them with a kind of hopeful question in his eyes. Gwaine snorts and shakes his head. “Not for lack of trying, believe me.”

Merlin has no idea what they’re on about, but he’s happy to see Lancelot.

The others begin to show up at random intervals, dispersing through the rooms, and there are things suddenly like kitchen rosters and grocery runs, and every once in a while someone starts shouting about a mobile charger. It almost feels like running a bed-and-breakfast, except for the part where it’s in the middle of nowhere, en route to no touristic destination at all.

It’s unexpectedly tiring. Too many centuries on his own, his memories his only companions. Not that he’s not glad to have them finally back in the flesh, but seeing them like this – alive, together, happy, _happily anticipating_ a new beginning that will not include him – makes him feel more lonely than ever before. He almost wishes they didn’t come back at all, because now he has to lose them, all of them, at once and for good.

He shares his thoughts with no one.

He takes to walking alone around the lake, sharing the quiet company of fishermen, and staring for hours at a time at the mist over the water.

His time is running out, has to be. Yet strangely he feels same as ever, not a whisper of his power fading, not a hint of his immortality coming to an end. 

Lancelot is watching him like a hawk, and worse, he has obviously said something to others, judging by the concerned looks Merlin is getting. 

He perfects the art of fake smiling and thinks about moving out for good.

\--

The Once and Future King is dressed in jeans and a simple black shirt. He checks Google Maps on his phone before nodding to himself that yes, this is the house. He walks in.

Merlin watches from the upper window, heart hammering in his chest, yet curiously calm. Action mode. Do what you must first, fall apart later. It’s amazing how some responses never change.

Right on time, there’s an eruption of voices downstairs – sounds of surprise, joy, laughter, incredulous happiness. Merlin grabs his jacket on autopilot and steps out of the room. They’ll be majorly distracted for a few more minutes at least, if they can see anything at all right now. He’s counting on it.

Quietly, he slithers down the stairs, keeping close to the wall, not looking, not turning his head. If he catches so much as a glimpse of that face, he won’t be able to go on. He ducks under Lancelot’s raised arm, ignoring the confused look, and silences Gwaine with barely a nudge at his power. He dives for the door, not looking back, wishing for invisibility. He’s almost there, just another step and—

“Merlin!”

Blood rushes to his temples at the sound of that voice, dark spots flooding his vision. He kicks the door open, jumps out onto the street, and runs.

“Merlin, stop!”

—and he does. 

Turning around slowly into the sound of hurried footsteps, he takes the first real look, and his breath catches painfully. 

There’s no need to wear a crown, when one’s entire self is awash with golden light streaming from within.

Merlin falls down to his knees, hamstringed, head sinking low in a bow, helpless and instinctive before the only man he’ll ever accept as his king. Except it doesn’t work when Arthur ruins it, knees hitting the pavement with no regard for anything, hands gripping Merlin’s shoulders, as he tries to catch his eye.

“No, Merlin. No,” Arthur whispers, so close Merlin feels the words burning into his skin. “You don’t bow to me.”

Merlin draws in a shaky breath, eyes stinging as he looks up to find Arthur equally unsteady, tears spilling as he blinks.

“Oh, God, _Merlin_ ,” Arthur breathes out and jerks him into a bone-crushing embrace, face buried in Merlin’s hair, holding on for dear life.

It feels like coming out of a dream. Slowly, woodenly, Merlin lifts his arms to return the hug, hands trembling as he feels the warm, solid, amazingly _alive_ body under the thin fabric of the shirt.

“Arthur,” he whispers, his lungs aching. “ _Arthur_.”

“Merlin, you idiot.” Arthur holds him closer still, painfully tight and wonderful. “Did you really think I’d ever let you go?”

Merlin shakes his head, pulling back, and Arthur lets him, only slightly, just so they can look at each other. 

“Everyone you need is in that house,” Merlin mutters, avoiding Arthur’s gaze. “I gathered your knights, your queen…”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur purrs, cupping his face gently, lifting his chin up, until Merlin is forced to meet his eyes at last. 

He whimpers, a thousand years of control slipping from that single look. “Don’t – I thought – don’t you want to do it right this time?”

Arthur smiles at him, incredulous, incandescently happy. “Merlin,” he says. “Oh, Merlin. I do.”

And as though it is the only right thing in the entire world, in every possible world, Arthur pulls him firmly, confidently in and kisses him.

\--

The waters are misty.

“I had a choice,” Arthur says. “A dreamless eternity, completely unaware. True dreaming, travelling through the endless fantasy worlds of Avalon. And then I could follow you – just watching, never able to interfere.”

Merlin winces. They sit shoulder to shoulder on a grassy beach, overlooking the sleeping lake. He can feel Arthur’s warmth seeping through their clothes. He feels perpetually cold everywhere they don’t touch.

“I followed you, naturally,” Arthur says simply, as though he’s not describing a thousand years worth of pain. “Past, present. I saw everything you did – back in Camelot, and after. I was mad at you, mad at myself.” He pauses. “I was scared to death every time you were in danger; I was dying the entire time you lay on the floor of that stupid temple in Japan. I felt so helpless, so completely useless.”

Merlin reaches out to squeeze his hand. Arthur tangles their fingers together instantly. 

“That wasn’t the worst of it, though,” he says, looking straight ahead as though he’s afraid to face Merlin. “I was – Merlin, I was so jealous of every single person you touched. Every time you—”

“Arthur—” Merlin swallows.

Arthur’s grip becomes painfully tight. “I wanted you to be happy, but I couldn’t help it. Back in Camelot, I watched you fall in love with me a thousand times. Watched myself ignore it, fear it, fear my own feelings.”

Merlin shakes his head. “At least one of us was doing the right thing, then. I had no right to feel what I felt. I was supposed to help you unite Albion, unite science and magic. Instead I fell in love with you and screwed it all up without even understanding why.”

He can feel Arthur looking at him now, but he doesn’t turn.

“I watched you trying to forget me,” Arthur whispers. “Century after century, I watched you trying to – to stop feeling it.”

“And I failed,” Merlin says bitterly, trying to pull free.

“And you failed,” Arthur agrees, keeping him in place, voice shaking. “Don’t you see, Merlin? One of us _was_ doing the right thing back then, but it wasn’t me. It was you. Wearing your heart on your sleeve, letting yourself take the hit, time and time again, waiting for me to do my part, only I never did. If I hadn’t been such a coward, if I’d admitted how I felt, if I’d stopped being purposefully blind every time you used your magic _right in front of me_ , because I didn’t want to know, because it was easier not to see—”

“Arthur—”

“If you felt that you could trust me with it, we’d have been together the way we were designed to be – might and magic, man and sorcerer. I’d have lifted the ban the way I was supposed to, and the world wouldn’t have been the mess it is now.”

“In the interests of full disclosure,” Merlin says, clearing his throat, “it would have been ‘man and – something else.’ Not-man.” He glances at Arthur almost apologetically. “I’m not human, Arthur.”

“You’re not mortal,” Arthur corrects, almost pedantic and completely nonchalant. “But you are, I think, more human than all of us put together.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, pondering this.

“So what now?” Merlin asks. “Where do we go from here?”

Arthur shrugs. “Wherever we’re needed.” He glances up thoughtfully at the slightly yellowing sky. “We’ll know soon enough now, won’t we?”

Merlin looks up for a moment and nods. “I suppose. But I meant—”

“I’m not letting you go,” Arthur cuts him off firmly. “Once was enough.”

“What about Gwen?”

A thousand years of sleep, and Arthur still can move faster than the eye can follow. Merlin is abruptly lying flat on his back, looking up, with Arthur’s weight holding him down.

“Let’s not keep on fostering the illusion that Gwen’s interest in me had been about me, and not about duty,” Arthur says, eyes intent. “She made a great queen. A better queen than I was king, probably. But she’s done her duty, and she deserves to be happy this time around, too. Whether it’s with Lancelot or Leon I can’t begin to guess, but it’s her choice to make.”

“You are so certain.”

“I know her heart.” A small, crooked smile curves Arthur’s lips. “I was married to her, after all.”

“Arthur—”

“Merlin, a thousand years is a long time to be in love without being able to do anything about it. Will you deny me now?”

Merlin shakes his head slowly, barely breathing. “You know very well that I can’t deny you anything.”

Arthur leans over him, smiling in a shy, hopeful way that makes Merlin’s heart ache. “I can’t follow you in my dreams anymore, so I don’t know. Do you still—”

“Yes,” Merlin whispers, reaching up to pull him close this time. “Always.”

It doesn’t feel like kissing a legend. It feels like coming home after a very, very long day, and also like a new start, fresh with hope, tingling with the promise of adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the bulk of this shortly after the show's finale, which left me frustrated and very angry at how things were handled. I normally tend to avoid reincarnation fics like the plague (writing or reading) exactly because they make me accept that canon. But this one wanted to happen, apparently, so I didn't stand in the way.


End file.
